Of Age and Wisdom
by Deanie McQueen
Summary: "Sam? Sam? Sam!" Dean was desperate. Dean was pulling Sam's head to his chest and rocking just slightly. "It's okay. Dude, it's fine. She's gone, okay? She's gone forever. No more old lady, I promise." Limp!Sam, Protective!Dean.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** In a recent trek to the local retirement community, I visited my paternal grandmother, Scarlet McQueen. She bestowed upon me a great many rumors about the neighboring ladies and their mysterious antics. And while my father tells me that Grandmother is going senile, I'm rather afraid for her safety. Paranoia is rampant in the McQueen bloodline, you see. We tend to crawl into dark spaces and stay there for hours out of fear of the people watching us in the Outside World. Sometimes we can be coaxed out by a kindhearted soul, but it's difficult for them to actually succeed - we're really very perceptive, is the problem, and our paranoia is often legitimate. It's not _really_ paranoia at all. We McQueens just happen to know a little of what's going on.

Anyway, enough about me. I had the urge to write some Limp!Sam, Protective!Dean as it is my favorite Supernatural-specific genre. All of my thoughts are connecting in this very linear fashion and it is shaping up to be a rather long fic. I hope you enjoy this beginning.

**Of Age and Wisdom  
(Of Youth and Fear)**  
by Deanie McQueen

* * *

Sam was turning blue. He choked and gasped and clawed at that hand around his neck, the one that had him pinned against the wall, up high enough that his long legs were kicking above the floor. Sam missed the floor. Sam wanted to touch back down onto the old wooden planks so he could reach his gun, which had been thrown ten feet to his left side by this awful, awful bitch. She was so _old. _And _dead._

Not to mention short. Her arm was unnaturally long, shooting out at least four feet to keep Sam in this particular position and it was _terrifying._ Her eyes were wide and unblinking as Sam struggled to scream for his brother, and her skin was pale and tinted blue in the dim, natural light of the stars and moon sweeping through the broken windows. He reached a hand out to tug at the frumpish bun on her head but that just made her even more angry.

"Why, you _naughty boy,"_ she hissed and Sam was reminded of that free after-school daycare John had put them in for a few days back in 1988, way down South with that lady who called Dean a naughty boy because _Sam_ had accidentally spilled apple juice all over a beloved library book. She'd made Dean write lines until his fingers cramped. Terrifying.

"_Dean_!" Sam screamed, because if Dean could save him back then, then he could obviously save him now...but only a tiny bit of desperate air escaped. Sam was going to die. Right here. And this old lady ghost was going to be the one to do it. "_Dean_!" he tried again, but to no avail.

He was losing consciousness when he heard the bang of Dean's shotgun. He gasped and heaved for breath when his ass hit the floor and Dean was there in a second, fingers lightly brushing over the abrasions on his neck.

"You okay? Dude, that was kind of cool how her arm was all freakishly long and shit...Sam?"

Sam blinked. He could still feel her. The room was still cold and it felt like spiders were creeping up his spine and his neck hurt like a motherfucker and he felt rather indignant because Sam Winchester is not _naughty, _thank you very much. Sam is a good boy and a decent human being and he doesn't need scary old ladies trying to tell him otherwise and-

"Sammy, c'mon, man..." Dean helped him up, kept him balanced by tossing one of Sam's long arms over his shoulders. "Let's get you back to the motel. I'll take care of the salt and burn, okay?"

Dean was gentle about depositing him into the passenger seat. He even reached over and buckled Sam in with one of those retractable waist seatbelts he had put in back when he restored the Impala after the accident, those seatbelts that they never ever wore, muttering things about how Sam wasn't in any shape to go flying through the windshield after almost being ganked by an old lady.

"I wasn't almost ganked by an old lady, Dean," Sam protested, his voice little more than a rasp.

"Were, too," Dean replied, and he shifted the car into drive.

Dean waited until Sam was settled on his bed before going to finish the job by himself. Sam was okay with this. Dean would be fine. Dean would take care of it. Salt and burns weren't exactly foreign or difficult jobs to Winchesters.

Dean lingered in the doorway before leaving, though, and Sam blinked at him from the bed, waved a hand in indication that Dean should go, Sam would be fine.

Sam would be fine.

He kept trying to tell himself that as his eyes slid shut on their own accord. Stupid eyes. Sam didn't want to go to sleep, not until Dean came back. Not until he knew she was gone for good.

But he fell asleep, anyway.

* * *

Sam woke up screaming, soaked in a cold sweat with tears dripping down his face and his brother saying his name. Over and over again.

"Sam? Sam? _Sam_!" Dean was desperate. Dean was pulling Sam's head to his chest and rocking just slightly. "It's okay. Dude, it's fine. She's gone, okay? She's gone forever. No more old lady, I promise."

She wasn't gone, though. Sam had seen her. He'd seen her alive and smiling, baking cookies and ironing floral blouses and perching reading glasses on her nose as she read the back cover of a Danielle Steel novel, her hand raising to cover her lips when she got to a particularly risque part of the description. He'd seen her humming and watering her plants, and pacing her house in the middle of the night because she was too old to sleep.

Sam was with her all the way. She'd offered him those cookies and he had reached for them, smiling his good-boy smile, only for them to be immediately snatched away. He'd offered his assistance with the ironing (Sam was a fan of a nicely-pressed shirt), only to be threatened with the hot end of the heated appliance. He'd pointed a very polite finger in the direction of some less offensive reading material, only to be beaten with her chosen literary abomination. He'd run away when she'd caught him watching her as she hummed, but he couldn't escape the cold water of the hose she'd sent after him. And when night fell, and she paced, and Sam's subconscious had placed him there against his will, he'd tried to creep away. He'd gotten quite far, in fact, but not as far as she could reach with that freak arm of hers and that's when the strangling happened.

Sam hooked his fingers into the back of Dean's T-shirt and sobbed.

* * *

**To be continued quite soon...**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **I do hope you're in the middle of an excellent morning, mid-morning, afternoon, evening, or nighttime. Please enjoy this second chapter.

* * *

Sam tried his very best to be brave the next day, but it seemed as if his nightmare lingered in every shadow and corner they passed. He walked closer to Dean than strictly necessary, somehow comforted by his big brother's confident stride and the smell of whatever he used in his hair. Sam tried to convince himself that he was ready to move on to the next hunt, but he felt small as they walked into Hank's Diner the next day, newspapers in hand.

He wrinkled his nose as he always did when he spotted unclean tables, and barely resisted swiping a finger over the Formica counter-tops. Eying anything too closely would only get him in trouble, so Sam concentrated on the feel of the plastic menu in his hands and fervently hoped they would get a waitress without wrinkles.

He wasn't sure he could handle wrinkles, at the moment.

A sharp stab in his ankle made Sam yelp and look up at Dean, who had claimed the seat across from him. "Please don't kick me," Sam said. "I'd appreciate it if you'd do something more reasonable. Like call my name."

"I _have_ been calling your name," Dean said, and somehow Sam knew he wasn't lying. "I just—you okay, dude? You're breathing kind of weird."

"I am?" Knowing that he _might_ be have been breathing weird definitely made Sam start breathing weird. His chest suddenly seemed tighter, bones pressing in on his lungs, and his mind flashed back to the night before: the unnatural length of her arm, the very unfair and cruel things she'd said to him in his dream, her _wrinkles_ that would surely expand and grow and swallow him whole until there would be more no Sam, no more _him_, and—

"Sam!" Dean was suddenly out of the booth, crouching down on the floor next to Sam's side. He reached up a hand to rub strong circles into his baby brother's shoulder, comforting. "What's going on with you, man?" he asked quietly.

"I don't…" Sam swallowed, suddenly unwilling to share his fears. They seemed rather silly in the bright light and greasy smell of the diner. "I'm not sure," he lied, and kept his eyes on the table. "Not feeling well, I guess."

"Huh." Dean rocked back on his heels, looking only mildly convinced. "This isn't about last night, is it?"

"No," Sam said, too quickly, and he knew the conversation wasn't over, but their waitress arrived just then. Dean got up and went back to his seat while Sam's eyes slowly crept up her pasty-pink uniform, past the ketchup stain near the third buttonhole, catching on the glint of her gaudy necklace with the (obviously fake) amethyst, and finally stopping where they should: on her brown eyes.

On her brown and most assuredly _old_ eyes.

Sam's hands immediately curled into weak fists. He tried to bite back the fearful noise that clung to the back of his throat, but a small squeak escaped. It didn't matter that he was a hunter. It didn't matter that his muscles were well-developed or that he was quick and agile on his feet. His heart raced in his chest and a white noise buzzed in his ears, blocking out the murmur of Dean's order. He felt stressed and trapped, stuck in the booth as he was, and tried to think of other things. Squeezing his eyes, Sam conjured an image of Mindy Jones, his kindergarten crush, and the way her red hair seemed to float in the breeze on the playground.

"Sir?" A voice jerked him out of his head. An _old_ voice, and Sam shuddered. Why couldn't they have gotten the bodacious waitress he had spied on the way in? She would have been wrinkle-free. "Sir, what would you like to order?"

A trembling hand covered his eyes, and Sam felt shamed. Why did this matter? Why was he acting like this when he was a grown man? "Just coffee," he made himself say, and was proud of the way his voice barely trembled.

He couldn't make himself say more, and didn't even bother to stop his brother from ordering him a coffee _and_ an omelet. He could only hope that they cooked it properly, and that Dean knew better than to get his something with sausage. Sam was not a fan of sausage.

"Sam, seriously." Dean's voice rang out from across the table; the waitress had apparently left, and Sam immediately felt better. More relaxed with the absence of wrinkles. "What is going on with you?"

Sam shrugged, trying to convince himself he felt better than he actually did. He could definitely breathe easier while their waitress was away, but his heart continued to smack against his ribcage, intent on escape. "I'm just…a little scared, Dean," he said, and tried to sound brave. It was hard, though, knowing their waitress would return.

"Of our waitress?" Dean guessed correctly.

Sam shifted in his seat. "I know how stupid it sounds, Dean. I just don't like her. She reminds me of…" Clearing his throat, Sam tried to keep the memories at bay. "Of my dreams," he finished, and closed his eyes because there she was, coming back with drinks, and he just didn't know if he could do it. He itched to move, to plug his ears and go somewhere safer until he could figure all this out. Acting like this wasn't normal, and Sam knew it. It'd only been one nightmare, one hunt out of thousands.

"Here you go, baby." Sam tensed as the waitress dropped off their coffees, and nearly screamed when he felt a non-Dean hand on his shoulder. It was _her_. "You're looking a little pale there, sugar," she said, mockingly sweet. "Gotta take care of yourself."

It sounded too much like a scolding. Embarrassingly and unwillingly, Sam's head felt full of cotton. The darkness on the edges of his vision crept in, blanking out the brightness of the world. All he saw was black.

* * *

**To be continued...**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** There was a time in my life when I owned a large, black dog by the name of Wellington, appropriately named after the Wellington boot. He was a very beautiful and kind animal, though he was, at times, prone to eating bullfrogs. Oh, Wellington. He so loved a nice evening and the sounds of nighttime creatures. I hope you enjoy this chapter.

* * *

Sam didn't quite know what happened after he blacked out. All he was aware of when he came to were his brother's hands buckling him back into the Impala, his brother's voice telling someone no, that it was fine, that Sam didn't need a hospital and Dean could take care of Sam, thank you, though, and thanks for the rhubarb pie - Dean was, in fact, absolutely certain that rhubarb pie was the key to a speedy recovery.

And then the passenger-side door closed, and the driver's door opened, then closed, and the car was put into drive and they were moving and Dean was asking, "Sam?" in a quiet, earnest voice. "Sammy?"

Sam didn't want to respond, but he did. He did, because Dean's voice was spotted with a kind of worry that shouldn't exist in the presence of rhubarb pie.

"Yeah?" he croaked, and he felt the brush of his brother's fingers on his face, cold and coarse and quick to disappear, searching for a fever that wasn't there.

"You're really freaking me out, dude."

"M'sorry, Dean." Sam was sorry. Sam didn't mean to freak Dean out. Sam was freaking _himself_ out, for the love of all things holy, and it was the last thing he ever wanted to do and he didn't even know _why_, really. He'd been attacked by a great many spirits before the old bitch from last night, but not one of them lingered like this one did. She was there, and then she was gone, but now she was everywhere. She was in every single one of them - in their eyes and in their touch and in their smell. She was in every passed and passing year visible to his eyes, in the cricks of their bones and the dry of their lips. "I don't mean to."

Dean merely grunted in response, but the ten-minute drive back to the motel seemed too short and Sam wanted to sit in the car after his brother parked. He didn't want to get out for anything, but Dean opened his door and reached over and unbuckled the useless belt, stood there and waited until Sam finally pulled himself out and trailed his older sibling into the motel room.

Sam dragged his feet over to the bed. The carpet sounded like sandpaper under the soles of his boots and Dean stared at him until he dropped his ass down onto the mattress and bent his head to the floor.

It took a few moments for Dean to sigh and swear under his breath.

"I hate talking," Dean grumbled.

"Nobody's asking you to talk," Sam replied, glancing up to see his brother nudging the floor with his own booted toe. "_I_ don't want to talk."

"Well, that's too fucking bad, because you are."

Dean was obviously on the verge of one of those Big Brother Power Trips Sam had come to loathe over the years. He watched as Dean pulled a chair out from underneath the table and turned it around to sit on it backwards, as he rose just slightly to drag it closer to Sam.

Face-to-face discussions were the worst kind of discussions.

"You're scared of old ladies," Dean said matter-of-factly, folding his arms over the back of the chair.

_Slander_, Sam thought. Sam was just as badass as Dean. "I am _not_-"

"Are, too." Dean always knew. Dean would always know. "Our waitress was old. You _fainted."_

It was true, Sam knew. He _had_ fainted. But he didn't want to hear about it - he hadn't wanted to faint. It was the worst possible thing that could have happened and he didn't need a stupid brother rubbing it in his face. "Shut _up_, Dean."

"No." Dean's voice was quiet now, but firm. "M'not makin' fun of you, Sam. You legit passed out. This is something we need to talk about and deal with because I don't know if I'll be able to handle you screaming every time you see a gray hair or a pair of reading glasses or, I don't know, a goddamn liver spot or something."

"Dean-"

"No, Sammy." Dean shook his head. "She had a freak arm, okay? She was dead and she had a freak arm and that's the only reason she was able to hurt you. All those other ladies? They're good people. Our waitress gave us pie, for chrissakes, after you were all safe and sound in the car. You want some pie?"

Sam didn't want any pie touched by hands like thin paper, but he didn't dare tell Dean this. And the only way to put a stop to this discussion was to be agreeable, he knew.

He nodded. "I...I want some pie, Dean."

Dean beamed. "You're damn right you want some pie."

The pie was on the rickety, old motel table in a cardboard box. Dean found some plastic forks in his duffel and, with an uncharacteristic sort of patience, waited for Sam to take the first bite before digging in himself.

Each mouthful was torture, but Sam swallowed it. He had to. Dean only looked away for a few seconds at a time.

"Bedtime, Sammy," Dean said after they were finished, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

Sam raised an eyebrow. Dean's authority over his sleep had ended about ten years ago.

"I'm serious," his brother insisted. "We have to get up early for morning service. We've gotta get you over this soon or it's only going to get worse."

Morning service? Sam gaped. "Dean-"

Dean snorted. "Nah, you're right. I fuckin' hate church. We'll just go to the grocery store. Get some donuts or something. Still, though...early, okay? Early bird specials? Isn't that something old people do?"

Sam wanted to protest, but Dean was already pulling him up and pushing him towards the bathroom door, stuffing a toothbrush in his hand along the way. Sam didn't resist, though his stomach was nothing but knots of dread, tightening with every second that ticked away on the clock - every second of time passing, wearing down the skin of women, and bringing him closer to tomorrow.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** In the midst of writing this chapter, I had the strongest desire to eat sugary treats. I do hope you enjoy this next installment.

* * *

"This is ridiculous, Dean." Sam grumbled as he folded his legs into the Impala. It was early enough that the world was quieter than normal; the sun was just a promising glow on the horizon, and Dean's eyes were still slanted and small from sleep. "I really don't think it's necessary."

Dean shook his head. "You have a phobia," he said, far too cheery considering the hour. "It's in some unwritten brotherly code that I have to help you overcome it." He smiled at Sam's groan, and reached over to pat his brother's shoulder. "If it's not necessary, then it won't take long. We'll just grab some donuts and scope out some wrinkles."

Wrinkles. Sam couldn't keep himself from shivering. He didn't look over to see if Dean had noticed, just pretended to wipe away a smudge on his window. After all, Sam might not be able to control his phobia, but he _could_ control oil-levels on glass. Smudges and stains of any nature rarely lasted in the younger Winchester's presence.

"On we go, then," Dean said for no reason at all, and let the Impala lurch out of the parking spot.

Sam let the rumble of the engine rattle his bones and calm his mind. The bumps of the road were their own kind of lullaby, and Sam did his best to think positive thoughts about the upcoming experience. His phobia was ridiculous and embarrassing; Sam visualized himself conquering it, walking into the store and buying a sugar-laden donut with his head held high. Old ladies were nothing to fear.

"Thinking big thoughts, I can tell." Dean interrupted Sam's musings, thumbs tapping out whatever rock was playing softly from the speakers. "Planning on sharing?"

"Nothing to share," Sam said, looking over at his brother. He raised his voice when Dean only raised his eyebrows. "Nothing, okay? So I have a little problem. We're going to do this—" Sam flapped his hand in the general direction of the windshield, "—and I'll be fine. I can handle a stupid grocery store, Dean."

"Can you?" Dean asked, and Sam didn't bother to hide his doubt.

* * *

The store was far too bright.

Sam blinked as they walked in, eyes watering at the glare from the white floors and walls. Some kind of greeter chirped a happy hello and offered them a cart, which made Sam inexplicably irked. He didn't _want_ to be here, surrounded by discounted Teddy Grahams and colorful fruit. His shoes squeaked as he followed Dean to the bakery, hands fumbling at lint in his pockets.

"Jelly, no jelly?" Dean poked him in the ribs when they stood in front of the donut rack. Sugar and sprinkles of all kinds glared at them through the plastic doors, and Sam found that he didn't really have an opinion.

"Get whatever," he said, and immediately stiffened when he heard a voice asking for prunes. An _old_ voice asking for prunes.

Dean instantly noticed, putting a calming hand on Sam's back. "S'all right," he whispered, and thumped Sam firmly between his shoulder blades. "Just pretend she's on her way to get Botox or some shit. Pretend the wrinkles are temporary."

_I can't_, Sam wanted to spit, because why didn't Dean understand? He couldn't do anything in such a state; he could already feel his lungs filling up with fear, making it hard to breathe. His fingers tingled and his skin crawled and it was only because of a voice.

He felt pathetic and small.

Torn between terror and embarrassment, Sam gathered all of his courage and leaned back into Dean's hand, seeking comfort. He let his mind take him out of the grocery store and away from the elderly vocal chords and tried to recall the time he'd gotten chickenpox. It was all Reggie's fault; Sam took a sip of his apple juice even though Reggie had a runny nose because the other boy had _promised_ he was fine. Two days later and they were both at their respective homes, itching and moaning for relief. Dean had given Sam an oatmeal bath and rubbed his little boy feet through his socks and even though Sam was in terrible discomfort, he had found faith in his brother's care. He knew Dean would make him well, and he summoned up that assurance as best he could in the grocery store. Dean would set things right.

"Look at you," Dean said proudly, snapping Sam out of his thoughts, "Already breathing better."

"I am?" Sam already knew the answer, but he craved additional confirmation. He liked hearing Dean's pride, especially when it was directed at him.

"Sure are," Dean confirmed, and quirked up a small smile. "Like a champ."

A champ! Sam tried not to preen, hearing such a thing. It was hard, though, as hearing Dean's praise filled him with boyish glee. Sam decided he wanted to earn such a wonderful title, and in a brash move, turned in the direction of the voice.

His heart nearly stopped in his chest from fear, but he soldiered on. Sam swallowed spit and met the gaze of an elderly woman in Crocs head-on, only letting out the smallest of whimpers when she raised her hand in a wave.

"Doing great," Dean encouraged, voice near Sam's ear. "Botox. Remember Botox."

Sam swallowed again. No amount of muscle immobilization would aid the elderly woman before him—her wrinkles were too deep and too grand—but he let Dean's confidence wash through his body, forcing his lungs to expand and contract. He could breathe. He just needed to keep telling himself he could breathe. There was nothing sinister about wrinkles or old ladies and he was a fool for letting this phobia take control.

It was still hard, but Sam forced himself to turn back to the donuts, ignoring the voice in his head that screamed about the dangers of lowered defenses. Purposefully calm, Sam picked out a nice, small donut from the back of a tray.

Dean already had a bag out and ready when Sam started to look, and so he dropped the donut in on top of Dean's and let out a big breath. He'd done it.

"Good job," Dean said, rolling up the bag. "You've done great, dude, but I think we should stay for a few more minutes. Push it a little."

Sam did not entirely approve of this plan, but he knew it was for the best. "Okay," he said, and with a determined nod of his head, set off towards the bananas and an elderly gentleman with a cane and a patchwork hat.

Some spunky cashier's voice rang out on the loudspeaker, asking for a price check. Sam clung to the normalcy of that as he moved closer to the old man, fighting the urge to plug his nose when he smelled the stale scent of the other man's clothes.

The old man was mumbling to himself (something to do about the price of oranges and leather), which Sam found rather disturbing. Standing next to the man was easier than looking at the woman, but Sam knew his issue was tied to old women, specifically. This made sense. Still, it was a confidence builder to stand so close to someone who had seen so many days. Sam let his hands roam over various fruits, enjoying the textures on his fingers. It was almost calming.

"Ready to go?" Dean had stayed by the donuts, but he walked over now, proud smile still in place. "I think that's enough for now."

"Yeah." Sam was definitely ready to go. He was proud of himself, but he was reaching the end of his summoned calm. A whole hoard of old ladies had just hobbled into the store, obviously eager to take advantage of the half-price peaches. Sam spied canes and walkers and even a wheelchair; such instruments were too easily re-imagined as weapons, and signaled the end of their visit.

Nevertheless, Sam walked back to the Impala with a new outlook. Maybe he was actually getting somewhere. He'd test it further soon, but for now he was content to munch on his treat with his brother at his side.

He felt like a champion.

* * *

**To be continued...**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Forgive me for the small delay on this chapter. I do hope that you've all been able to find the humor as well as the terror present in this story, as it amuses me greatly to write it. Enjoy.

* * *

Things had been getting better, and Sam was nearly over his fear. He still felt a bit shaky and undone around wrinkles, but he'd taken to recalling rare and happy memories from his childhood to keep himself calm. He let the images of fireworks and cake-baking blur away the terror as he talked to the old cashier in the Moto-Mart and the ticket lady when Dean insisted on watching a movie. Both of these interactions had been rather awkward and forced, but Sam had considered them a success.

Dean, as always, was by his side. Now that it seemed as if Sam was making progress, Dean had taken to teasing him about his phobia. "Just wait 'til I tell Bobby," he said, and, "You're a pitiful example of an adult, Sammy." These words hurt, but Sam brushed them aside with a swat to Dean's arm or a gentle punch to his side. He _knew_ it was a stupid thing to be afraid of, but the memory of the old non-lady on the hunt still clung to the corners of his brain.

It had been a slow recovery, but Sam woke up two months after the dreaded hunt with determination and hunger clawing in his stomach. Today would be the day. If I decide I'm cured, Sam thought, I am be cured. He'd prove it. Somehow.

Dean was still snoring in the next bed, so Sam slapped at his brother's arm until he blinked, eyes fuzzy and dull from sleep. Sam heard a warbled "What?" and cleared his throat.

"I'm going to go get us breakfast," he said, already fingering the keys in his pocket. "You want anything in particular?"

Dean buried his face in the pillow, stretching his arms up and crossing them above his head. Sam could count six holes in his shirt and knew there were plenty more. Maybe he'd find a thrift store somewhere, too.

"Dean?" he said again. "Breakfast. What do you want?"

Dean turned his head just enough to say, "Food," before burying his face again. Sam poked him once more for good measure, but Dean just lowered a hand to grab the comforter, flinging it up and over his body.

"Be that way," Sam said childishly, but he should have known better than to expect Dean to be fully functioning after a night out at the bar. Dean had spent quite a long time flirting with a busty redhead with a hamburger tattoo on her left forearm. Sam wasn't sure if Dean was more enamored with Sally's plunging neckline or her choice of body art.

He sighed as he left the room, walking slowly to the Impala and welcoming the familiar squeak of the door and rumble of the engine. He hoped Dean would be happy when he got him something without grease. It would be for his own good.

Driving, Sam realized he had no idea where to stop for breakfast. The diner they'd eaten at the night before was closed, the parking lot empty and in need of serious repair. He couldn't remember any other possible breakfast-selling venues, so he drove until there were fewer businesses and more houses.

Just as he was getting ready to turn the Impala around, Sam spotted a small neighborhood grocery store. That might have to do.

Shopping went well, Sam thought. He happily grabbed a few pieces of fruit and a box full of granola bars he thought would be smart to keep for snacks. He hated himself a little for picking up a bag of Starbursts (the kind filled with liquid sugar), but it was hard not to smile when Dean gleefully popped the candy in his mouth. Perhaps Sam would hold onto the bag and distribute the small candies as rewards for good eating behavior.

Armed with the fruit, granola, Starbursts, two small bottles of orange juice, and a few other breakfast-type items, Sam checked out and wandered back to the Impala. It was later now, but still early: only a few cars were on the road, all of the drivers caffeinated or half-asleep.

"Excuse me, young man?"

Sam whirled around, nearly squashing his hand as he slammed the trunk shut. His heart skipped a few beats when he saw an old lady hobbling closer, a sweet smile in place. "Yes?" he managed to say. "Can I help you?"

"Already so kind," the woman said, cocking her head in such a fashion that suggested Sam's question was nothing less than pure sunshine to the ears. "Kind boys like you are so hard to find, you know."

"Right." Sam spoke as politely as he could, but even with all the progress he'd made, it was a bit of struggle to keep a small smile on his face.

"Kind boys like you _help_ when they're asked, don't they?" The woman stepped closer still, and Sam could smell the faintest hint of staleness. Her gray dress looked homemade and worn; fat buttons lined from the lace collar down to her knees, shining like pearls. Impossibly small feet moved around in clunky heels, her steps short and shuffling. "Kind boys always know what's right."

Sam backed into the bulk of the Impala before he could stop himself. Who talked like that? It seemed awfully suspicious and devious to his ears. Old ladies gave out candy and baked their grandchildren too many cookies; they didn't accost muscular men in neighborhood grocery stores. Sam eyed her black purse, obviously full and heavy with something deadly, something that could cut or burn or maul him to—

What the hell was his problem?

Remembering his vow that very morning (_If I decide I'm cured, I'm cured_), Sam shook away his fear and made a very brave step forward. Old ladies talked oddly because they were _old_ and lacked access to social circles that employed modern language. It wasn't her fault she sounded so bizarre.

"Do you need help?" Sam asked, and got his answer when her face lit up.

"Oh, yes." One final step brought the woman close enough to grab Sam's hand in a very soft and loose grip. "I would love your help. Would you mind walking my groceries to my house?" She let go and pointed to a solitary paper bag still waiting by the grocery store entrance. "I live just there."

Sam turned his head to follow the nod of her head and saw a perfectly ordinary house not three minutes walk from the store. Try as he might, Sam really couldn't see anything suspicious about it: the house looked well-maintained and inviting, lawn full of green grass and a porch with a swing. He chanced a quick look at his watch; he had enough time, surely, to help her out before Dean got worried. It shouldn't take long at all.

"I've got carrots and celery sticks," the woman said, like it was the best enticement anyone could ever hope to hear. "I'll fix you up a plate if you'll bring the bag to my kitchen. Big boys like you need to eat smart."

"We do," Sam agreed. "I'll help you."

And he did. It didn't take long to pick up the bag and head towards her house. Every step felt like a victory. Too long ago, Sam could barely sit in a diner. Now he was helping an old lady all by himself, and he couldn't help but look forward to his vegetable reward.

"Just let me get my keys," the woman said, and started digging through her purse. "Always lose them, you know."

Sam nodded, feeling more at ease. Bad and evil people didn't lose their keys. Bad and evil people didn't have welcome mats or birdhouses painted in eggshell blue. These things reassured him, and he hefted up the surprisingly heavy bag on his hip as he waited.

"There we are," she said when the door popped open. She stopped in the foyer before Sam could move past, looking up at him. "Oh, my! And I never did give you my name, did I? Here we are, nearly in my home, and I haven't given you the smallest of courtesies. I'm Marcia, dear."

"Sam," Sam said, and followed her when she finally moved forward. "You know, never mind about the celery." The more he thought about it, he had wasted quite a bit of time looking for somewhere to find food. His big brother would be worried about him. "Thank you, but I should just go."

"Nonsense!" cried Marcia, already hobbling towards the fridge. "You deserve your thanks."

Sam pasted on a smile, but started backing up. Now that he was inside, he didn't much care for the rooster wallpaper or the overturned sugar canister. There was only a single chair at the dining room table, and it was obviously his imagination, but the keys on the old wooden piano looked rather red. "Thanks," he said again, "but my brother will worry, and I should really go."

"Stay." It was no trick of his ears: Marcia's voice sounded stern and deep. "You'll stay, won't you? I have to give you my thanks."

"It's—it's no problem," Sam said, all his bravado slipping away. Her wrinkles stood out like canyons, deep and dangerous. "I don't need your vegetables."

Marcia frowned. "It's rude to deny your elders, Samuel. Have you forgotten your manners? I was so very certain you were a kind boy. Thought you were such a kind, tall boy."

That was enough. Sam couldn't bring himself to think away her odd language now; he left her where she was and hurried back through the small hallway to the front door. He could hear the shuffling drag of her feet following and the smell of the dusty carpets was almost too much, but Sam tried to keep calm. "I can run fast, I can run fast," he told himself, and jiggled the front door.

It was locked.

* * *

**To be continued.**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Poor Sammy is not in a good place, at the moment. I felt quite terrible treating him like this, so I'm off to bake some brownies. Please enjoy the chapter!

* * *

_Kind boys do as they're told._

_Kind boys don't ask questions._

_You're a kind boy, aren't you, Samuel? _

The words wouldn't leave him alone; they rang in his head and filled his lungs with all the fear he'd tried so hard to overcome these past few months. Everything was fuzzy and fog-like in his head, blurring away the logic that told him he could flee.

Sam didn't want to be where he was; he knew that much, but something was keeping him from truly attempting to escape. He longed to be outside where he could find the Impala and touch her leather seats and feel at home. This wasn't his home. He wanted to find his brother. Wanted Dean. He wasn't happy here, and with the last vestiges of his sanity Sam knew he was under some kind of spell.

A small spritz of water to his face knocked Sam out of his thoughts. He gasped a little when his vision refocused and he realized he'd been caught. Marcia was glaring up at him with fierce little eyes and her spray can. She was wearing a holiday sweater and beige slacks, Sam noted. It was August.

"Did I ask you to stop cleaning, Samuel?" Marcia's voice was something sickly sweet and poisonous. With her free hand, she pointed to the feather duster in Sam's hand, and then to the bookshelf he'd been working on. "My books still look dirty. What did I tell you about dirty books?"

"You don't like them," Sam mumbled, keeping his eye on the bottle in her hand. It was red and yellow and he couldn't squint, or it looked too much like a clown. Being punished by water spritzes was bad and humiliating enough, so Sam made sure to keep the container in focus.

"I don't like them," she repeated, nodding. Sam wondered if she was going to offer him another slice of watermelon as a reward. She'd cut one up earlier, brandishing a large and imposing knife that Sam shied away from. It was far too easy to imagine the poor fruit's skin as his own. "Too many thoughts are running through your head," she warned, and stepped closer to poke Sam in the ribs. "That doesn't please me."

"I'm sorry," Sam said, and meant it. He didn't want to upset Marcia; something told him bad things would come of it.

Marcia pulled and patted at the skin near his ribs like it was one of his cheeks. "You are," she replied, and it seemed like she believed him. "Now I'd like you to get back to work. After the bookshelf, I'd like you to polish my silver. And then perhaps we'll have lunch, hmm?" She didn't bother to wait for a reply, merely hobbled back to the sofa and picked up her embroidery. Sam had spied it earlier when he'd fluffled the pillows; it was a fiercely ugly depiction of two rabbits destroying a field of black flowers.

Remembering why he'd been punished moments before, Sam turned back to his dusting. There were all sorts of books on the shelves, and it was one of the strangest collections Sam had ever seen. Books on home gardening were sandwiched between titles like Wildebeast Anatomy: An Illustrated Guide, and The Do's and Don'ts of Global Anarchy. What scared Sam the most, however, was Marcia's very trashy romance novels. Sam frowned as he dusted over cover after cover of scantily-clad, busty women and men with impressive packages and tight shorts. What sort of person would find such a thing appealing, he wondered. So much lyrca was unsightly, not to mention the dangers it posed to fertility and sexual—

Another spritz to the face. Sam shreiked.

"I am very disappointed in you." As soon as he was looking, Marcia spritzed Sam in the face again. He wasn't sure why he found it as frightening as he did, but the cold water was a terrible punishment. "You're thinking things you shouldn't."

Sam swallowed.

"I saw you looking at my stories," Marcia said, and reached up a small hand to caress the nearest title. "You frowned."

"I didn't mean to," Sam whispered.

"You don't approve of my reading material, is that it?"

"No, ma'am," Sam said, shaking his head. "I mean, it's fine. It's all fine. I wasn't thinking a thing." He suspected it wouldn't be wise to admit he found romance novels a blight in an otherwise redeemable literary landscape. "I didn't mean to upset you," he finished lamely.

Marcia narrowed her eyes. "I'm not quite sure I believe you this time, Samuel. You seem to take some pleasure in upsetting me. What is it going to take to get through to you?" She spoke the last bit with the air of someone truly and utterly offended, as if Sam's dislike of romance novels was an attack on her very soul. "More spritzing?"

"Please, no," Sam spat out, his heart already beating faster at the suggestion. He was ashamed of himself, in that moment. What kind of a Winchester was he, that he was terrified of water? That he was terrified by an old woman?

In the back of his mind, Sam knew the situation was ridiculous. He was tall and muscular, trained in the use of guns and very sharp weapons. The door was locked, but there was no logical reason why he couldn't smash out of a window, or overpower Marcia long enough to tie her up and recover his cell phone. He could call anyone, he could call _Dean_, and then perhaps this madness would end. His big brother would find him and take him away from this place. Sam knew it.

Perhaps Dean was looking for him right now. Sam clung to this hope, as he was seemingly incapable of leaving the house on his own. Whatever nonsense the old lady had done to him was incredibly effective. He was terrified and alone, always waiting for the next bad bit of this nightmare to unfold. Even if he did escape, he wasn't sure he'd recover.

He wanted Dean.

"Samuel!" Sometime during his thoughts, Marcia had left and returned with a small and rather dirty-looking slipper. The blue of the silky fabric was torn in places, but it didn't lessen the threat. She tapped it thoughtfully against her own palm, evil thoughts clearly running through her head. "Do I need to use this?"

Sam's eyes flitted between her hand, the slipper, and the determination in her prim little mouth. He didn't doubt that she would use it, if need be, and this only served to terrify Sam further. His mind was already foggy and his limbs were already weighted; it was harder to breathe with every passing second, his fear of Marcia growing. He'd do anything to avoid being hit with such a thing.

He gulped, shaking his head. "No. You don't need to use it."

"I'll be keeping a close eye on you," Marcia growled, and Sam could swear her teeth looked like razors. "Any more lagging, any more unpleasant thoughts, and I won't hesitate. Be a kind boy and you won't have to worry."

Sam nodded and turned back to his dusting. He waited until he heard the sound of the cushions groaning on the couch before he let the tears well. It was hard to be brave.

He didn't know how much longer he could last.

* * *

**To be continued**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **Please forgive the extreme delay in the updating of this story. I was not in an old lady mood, I'm afraid, but I had to do something to at least _start _to save Sammy from his plight. The poor dear.

* * *

Dean was worried. Very worried, in fact.

He'd woken up sometime around 10, feeling more rested than he had in ages. At first he was convinced the alarm clocking was lying; Winchesters did not typically have the luxury of sleeping in so late, especially when siblings named Sam were around. Dean had never understood why his brother loved the early morning as much as he did. Waking up at 6 was all well and good when they were working a time-sensitive case, but Sam always tended to poke and wheedle Dean out of bed before 8, at the latest. Case or no case.

Rolling out of bed, Dean rubbed at his eyes in a way he privately regarded as adorable. He poked his head out the front door long enough to notice that Sam had taken the car, which made him want to grumble at the walls.

Dean grumbled at the walls.

He took a shower to wash away any lingering sleep, figuring Sam would have returned with whatever nonsense he'd picked up for breakfast by the time he got out of the bathroom. Stealing Sam's loofah, Dean debated the merits of things like exfoliating beads and the hair ads with the orgasm sounds.

Needless to say, this shower took some time.

After Dean and Dean's dick emerged from the shower feeling refreshed, he was more than a little shocked to note that Sam still hadn't returned. There was no smell of pancakes, no sounds of Sam munching on fruit or bitching about how much it cost to fill up the Impala's tank.

Worry immediately bloomed in Dean's stomach.

"Where the hell are you?" he said to the walls.

The walls didn't reply.

Finding his baby brother was imperative. Not knowing where Sam was made Dean's skin itch in an awful way that he couldn't fix without seeing 6 feet and however many inches of the person he'd looked after since babyhood.

Driving the car he'd stolen from a house with too many pink flamingos, Dean patrolled the streets looking for anything on wheels that was black and magnificent. He tried not to, but he passed the time thinking of what could have happened to Sam. Sam had an awful habit of getting himself into ridiculous situations; Dean wouldn't put it past his brother to get lost in a mall, or lose track of time petting bunnies for sale in someone's yard.

Come to think of it, Sam really hadn't been himself ever since that old bitch had instilled the fear of wrinkles in his brain. Dean had thought Sam was getting better, as the past few days had been fairly kind to them; Sam's twitches had died down, and Dean had noticed Sam's extra effort in overcoming his phobia. He was proud of his baby brother. In fact, Dean had been planning to take Sam to get ice cream later that day in celebration. Sam would groan and roll his eyes, but Dean was fully aware how much Sam enjoyed his sprinkles.

The stolen car's tires screeched as Dean drove past a shabby little grocery store.

The Impala.

Dean cut off an oncoming minivan as he pulled into the lot, his crappy car's brakes wailing like a wailing thing. He slammed his door shut as he got out, peeking the Impala's windows to confirm that Sam wasn't sitting in some kind of zombified state. It took no time at all to run through the store, earning stares and not-so-silent comments about this strange man asking for Sam.

No one had seen him.

Lost and with his heart beating harder, Dean decided to look for clues. There was nothing overly suspicious around the premises – no sign of blood, no sign of struggles or Sam-like footprints – and Dean's hands were shaking as he opened the trunk of the Impala for the EMF reader.

There were groceries in the trunk.

Dean's head immediately whipped around in a speedy way, looking around for Sam. Sam had gotten groceries. Sam had gotten groceries and put them in the trunk. Sam had gotten groceries, put them in the trunk, and hadn't driven away. He had to be somewhere near; Dean felt this in his bones.

As the town was still a quiet town even in the late morning, Dean heard the snap of a screen door across the street. He watched as an older woman hobbled out of her house and headed for the mailbox. His eyes narrowed as he continued to watch, suspicious in a way he couldn't explain. He didn't like anything about her – not the way her hands steadily sorted through at least ten magazines, not the crazy whiteness of her slippers and _certainly _not the red nose on the reindeer sweater she was wearing in August.

"Sam," Dean breathed, and knew where he'd start looking.

* * *

**To be continued...**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **Here we are again. Enjoy.

* * *

Dreams wouldn't come easy to Sam.

"Have a rest, dear," Marcia had said, suddenly at his shoulder like she'd warped from the couch to the bookshelf in some scientifically impossible way. "Good boys need their naps. Wouldn't want you to get clumsy with the duster, would we? My books are quite precious."

Nodding along for no reason at all, Sam had let himself be led down a short hallway and into what was clearly a guest bedroom. Marcia cooed about making some kind of stew and how she had to check the mail and she tucked Sam under the covers as she did so, patting his head when she finished.

"Just some chopping for the stew," Marcia reminded, heading for the door. "You let the dreams come, and I'll be back to wake you."

Sam didn't dare say he wasn't tired, or that he hadn't had a nap in a significantly long period of time. Sam had always been an awake sort of person, quite unlike his older brother, who could sleep anytime and anywhere as long as he wasn't being shot at by something unnatural.

Dean.

Longing swooped in Sam's stomach at the thought of his brother. He was tired of being held captive by Marcia, as when he looked at the situation sideways in his mind, it was all very ridiculous. Sam was a grown man – a tall and sturdy and _muscular_ grown man, thank you – and Marcia was a wrinkly woman with no discernable means of power beyond her ability to scare Sam into submission. Reviewing the past few hours in his mind was an embarrassing ordeal; Sam cringed when he recalled the way he'd behaved. Scared of spritzing? Fearful of slippers and their potential to smack him? In the bed as he was, these things didn't seem nearly as horrifying. He was scared of neither slipper nor spritz, but he _was_ terrified of Marcia.

Unreasonable as his fears were, Sam didn't know if he could hold himself together long enough to escape. Knowing that he shouldn't be scared didn't mean he _wasn't_ scared. Just thinking of Marcia and her holiday sweater made Sam want to disappear into the safer world of dreams.

The faint sounds of chopping floated in through the cracked door. Sam bit at his lips as he tried to gather enough courage to get out of bed, telling himself she wouldn't be able to hear. Old ears were poor ears, after all.

_You can do it_, Sam told himself. One step at a time. _First step: getting up. Second step: freedom_.

He just needed to gain confidence, was all. He'd already disobeyed Marcia by not sleeping; getting out of bed was next on Sam's agenda, and he intended to follow through.

And yet, no amount of motivational thinking was enough to stop Sam's heart from beating faster when his feet hit the floor.

_Bad, bad, bad_, his mind told him. _You're being such a bad boy_.

"Stop it," Sam whispered to the walls, shaking his head, but the voice wouldn't leave him alone. It mocked him in a very Marcia-like way as he creeped towards the door, hands already shaking and legs full of lead.

Sam made it nearly three feet from the door before he had to turn around.

He brought his hands up to his temples and sweat-damp hairline, clutching at his head. "What's the matter with me?" he whispered again, pained. Sam could no longer hear the sounds of chopping over the sudden flurry of worry rushing through his skull. She'd find him, no doubt. He'd open the door and she'd immediately know his intentions – his badwrong_awful_ intentions – and she'd punish him in some way that he wouldn't be able to stand.

Gasping as quietly as he could, Sam stopped clutching at his head only to clutch at his knees. He tried to imagine that Dean was with him, standing behind him with a strong and comforting brotherly hand. Dean would tell him to think happy thoughts, so that's what Sam tried to do.

Sam thought about the Impala, driving down another nameless highway while his big brother sang something really old and repetitive. Sam thought about the first time he'd heard Death Cab and how he'd eaten the most amazing fruit salad later that same evening. He thought about cartoon-watching with Dean when they were left behind by John, how Dean would fix him cereal and blabber about Henrietta or Jackie or Wendy.

A million and one happy memories bounced around Sam's brain, calming him down like Dean would have known.

A second later, and Sam felt brave enough to reassess the situation. Perhaps his escape via door could wait while he explored the bedroom and gained confidence.

It was a dull bedroom, by anyone's standards. The walls were covered with yellowing wallpaper and various framed cross-stitch designs, all boring and bleak. Light struggled to pass through the heavy mauve curtains, and Sam's hand itched for the duster when he spotted the layer of grime on the dresser.

Curiosity dulling fear, Sam made his way to the dresser and pulled out the first drawer. It was full of snow-globes. "Weird," he said, and shut the drawer only to pull out the second, full of masking tape and rubber gloves. This seemed a bit more sinister, so Sam shut it in favor of opening up the third.

"What the hell." Sam knelt down so he could rummage through page after page of spells. _Witches_ spells, his brain informed him, even though something about the words struck him as odd. He'd never really seen spells like these before: spells to soften sheets, spells to banish computer viruses and spells to summon firecrackers. Spells to steal HD radio and spells to enhance the flavor of stew.

Half-bemused, Sam picked up a spell that had been written on a page taken from a Lisa Frank journal. Whoever it was that had written the "Spell Check Spell" had an apparent fondness for pink gel pens. Which struck Sam as funny, considering how—

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

Whipping around, Sam locked eyes with Marcia. A very angry-looking Marcia with mail in her hands and the faintest hint of dirt on her slippers.

Sam couldn't help it: he screamed.

* * *

**To be continued...**

Oh, gosh! I'm quite scared, myself! Poor Sammy.


	9. Chapter 9

Sam's scream echoed off the corners of the shabby room. Beating as fast as it was, his heart felt like a humming motor in his chest. Words his mother and librarians everywhere would frown upon bounced around his brain, but he couldn't manage to say them. The sudden appearance of Marcia numbed his tongue.

"I am distressed!" Marcia raised her voice, still standing by the doorway. "Samuel, you've made me quite angry, just now. Do you know what happens to unruly boys when I'm angry? When I've lost my calm?"

Sam stumbled backward, seeking safety with his shoulders pinned against the far wall. "I…I…"

"They're punished," Marcia growled like an ornery and aged dog. One with poor grooming habits and penchant for rummaging through the garbage, perhaps. "Boys who break my rules are punished in a way they do not enjoy."

Squeaking noises escaped from Sam's throat. His hands scrabbled to find some kind of secret and magical exit on the wall, but he couldn't take his eyes off Marcia. She held the mail in her hands like a kind of paper weapon. Despite his efforts not to, Sam imagined a hundred and five different things this evil old woman could do to him in the next few minutes. All of them would be terrible.

"You will be punished, Samuel." Marcia stepped closer after her words, dirty slippers sliding along the carpet, and Sam's eyes focused beyond her shoulders. To the space she'd left between herself and the door.

Sam saw his chance.

With a grand and wild cry, Sam flew forward, knocking Marcia to the floor in his escape. He heard her yelp, followed by a deeper and more guttural sound of groaning. Painful groaning. _So bad_, his mind told him. _You're being so bad! Naughty boys get punished. They get punished, punished, punished…_

"Stop it!" Sam screamed at himself as he navigated the short hallway, legs already wobbly with the stress of his actions. "Shut up!"

Sam could smell the stench of the stew brewing as he collided into the couch. He felt as if the world was spinning in ten different directions at once, tugging at his mind and limbs until nothing made sense.

Stumbling slower now, Sam's breath came in huge heaves and puffs. He knew he needed to get outside: outside was safe and good and so much better than this house. So much better than Marcia. But what had he done? He'd _hurt_ her in some way, he was sure of it. Unintentionally, perhaps, but what would the authorities say? Who would believe that a little old woman had held someone like Sam captive? Sam would be sent to jail and he'd suffer there too – alone and away from Dean and away from the lifestyle Sam loved, but didn't always like.

But anything, _anything_ would be better than here, Sam decided, and forced his hand to grip the handle of the front door.

It twisted beneath his grasp.

Sam was too distraught to manage much more than a tiny squeak when the door was pushed forward. "No!" Sam cried, knowing it must already be the police, coming to take him away. "No, no!"

"Sam?"

Sam couldn't believe it. His entire body buzzing with the aftermath of escape, he blinked stupidly at Dean. Dean, who was in Marcia living room. Dean, who had come to save him and take him away.

"D—Dean?" Sam choked out.

Dean nodded, rushing forward to grip his brother in a fierce and tight hug. "Sammy," he breathed, bringing up a hand to rub at Sam's hair. "Dude, you're alright. I was so fucking worried about you, but you're alright."

Sam couldn't help but sag into his brother's arms. He breathed in the smell of Dean's clothes, of his aftershave and the kind of cleanliness that only came after using a loofah. He tightened his grip as he remembered the events of the day and how scared he'd been. "Don't leave me," he managed to say, rebellious tears already spilling down his cheeks. He didn't care how young he sounded, or how pitiful. "Please don't leave me, Dean."

"Shh," Dean's arms were strong and stable. "Not gonna leave you, buddy."

Sam sniffed and nodded, believing his older brother.

They stayed like that for another handful of moments, Sam doing his best to calm down and breathe normally again. The tears were still falling, but he wiped them away with the sleeve of his shirt. There'd be time to cry later; at the current time, he only cared about getting away.

"Can we leave, Dean?" he asked. "I just—I can't be here anymore."

"Leaving right now," Dean affirmed, before crooking his head towards Marcia's groaning down the hall. "You remember where you parked the car?"

Sam nodded.

Dean gripped Sam's shoulder one more time, squeezing. "Think you can make it back there okay?" he asked, and rushed to continue before Sam could protest his fears. "I gotta go check up on whoever it is that did this to you."

"Marcia," Sam supplied.

"Marcia," Dean said back, shifting on his feet. "M'gonna check up on her, set things straight. Okay, kiddo? Gotta cover our tracks."

"I think…I think she's a witch, Dean," Sam said, remembering the drawer in the bedroom. "I saw spells. Spells in the dresser."

"I'll check that out, too." Dean's voice was so wonderfully calm and confident. "Don't want you worrying about anything, dude. Just get to the car. I'll meet you there."

To be honest, Sam didn't really feel like leaving. He wanted to stay with Dean, but the thought of returning to that bedroom and seeing Marcia made the decision for him. He'd hold onto his courage for a bit longer; he could make it to the Impala, if that's what Dean wanted him to do. He'd make it there, and then they'd be gone. They'd leave the whole town behind and spend the night somewhere safe.

"Okay," he said, feeling brave. "Okay."

Dean looked at him, and Sam knew he'd done well when he could spot the pride in his brother's eyes. "Gonna be okay," Dean reminded, and stepped closer to give Sam one last hug before turning away. "Everything's going to be okay."

Sam wasn't quite so sure.

**To be continued...**

* * *

Did you like it? Please let me know, as I feel like there's no point in finishing the story if no one's interested.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **Here we are. Our grand journey comes to an end. Thank you for sticking around.

* * *

The ride to the next motel was all a haze.

Sam remembered escaping Marcia's, running to the Impala and waiting for Dean's return. He'd clutched at his knees and thought as many happy things as he could before Dean knocked on his window, scaring him back into reality. "Gonna leave now, Sammy," Dean had said, "I'm back and we're leaving the town."

"So fucking scared, Dean." Sam was having trouble breathing as he told this truth. He felt as if Fear had taken residence in his chest, sitting on it like a heavy weight and pulling at his bones. "Scared."

Dean had nodded at this like it was to be expected. Sam assumed his brother went around the front of the car (Sam's eyes were closed, now; Fear demanded it), because in no time at all, the driver's side door was opening and strong hands started to rub at Sam's shoulders.

"No more being scared, okay?" Dean whispered, soothing. "Your big brother's here now."

Sam could keep the tears back at hearing that, as it was true. Dean _was _here. Dean had saved Sam when Sam was on the brink of madness and the debt was nearly un-repayable. He knew the action was childish, but Sam couldn't help leaning into his brother's arms and sobbing. His brother radiated comfort like a human furnace, and Sam just wanted to soak up the heat.

They had stayed like that for awhile – Sam unable to believe the nightmare had truly passed, Dean mumbling nonsensical things to keep Sam from bawling – until Sam's stomach rumbled.

"That was a loud rumble," Dean remarked. "You hungry, dude?"

Eyes sticky with dried tears and salt, Sam looked up at his big brother – his protector – with a hopeful look. He _was _hungry. He was hungrier than he'd been in ages, as he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. Marcia had offered him nothing but vegetables and some Ritz crackers with expired peanut butter. And as much as Sam approved of vegetables (because he very much did), he hadn't had much in the way of an appetite at the time. All of this translated into Sam feeling extremely parched and in want of food.

"I'd like some food, Dean," he confirmed.

That was all it took: Dean pursed his lips in a resolute way and backed out of the parking lot. Sam supposed he should point out that they had food in the trunk, but he was enjoying basking in his brother's care. He'd let Dean decide what was best.

They had driven for ages, long enough for the stripes on the road to morph into a single blur of yellow in Sam's mind. He knew they had stopped for food; he faintly recalled Dean leaving him again to run into a diner for a salad and cheesecake, returning to coax Sam into eating something green. "You need your strength," Dean had pointed out, and Sam was in no shape to argue.

Marcia and the old town were far behind by the evening. Dean checked them into a classier hotel, and Sam didn't even have the energy to worry about how they were going to pay for it.

He was still shaking from time to time, memories of the day coming back to him like stabbing knives in his head. Sam was confused as to why his brain insisted on thinking of things that _hurt_ so much, like the look on Marcia's face when she'd caught him leaving, or her grip on the spritzer when he'd been dusting books. He never wanted to think of Marcia or old women ever again.

The bed Dean guided him to was soft and smelled of clean sheets and lilac. Sam immediately curled up on his side, grabbing a pillow to hug around his stomach. He felt small and unprotected.

From the sound of it, Dean was doing their usual post-check-in routine: salting the windows and doors, drawing protection spells in chalk on the back of the door and at the foot of each bed for good measure. When he was finished, Sam could hear him settle on the other bed and turn on the TV, obviously trying to give Sam some space.

Sam didn't want space. He wanted his big brother.

"Dean," he whispered, rather shakily. He knew his request was babyish and unacceptable for someone as old and as muscular as he was, but the bed felt too big. The bed felt too big and he couldn't stop_ thinking._ He cleared his throat. "Dean, could you…?"

"Yeah, buddy?"

"Could you watch TV from over here? With me?"

The short break of silence worried Sam – did Dean think it was a dumb request? – until he felt the dip of the mattress behind him. Dean arranged himself on his back, shoulders and head propped up by pillows so he could still see the TV, his side butted up against Sam's back. After a few moments of Alex Trebek asking asinine questions to individuals (Who in the universe didn't know that Utretch was in the Netherlands? Sam wondered), Dean's hand came down on Sam's ribs, patting absentmindedly.

"You feel better?"

Sam shook his head. "No." He bit his lip in the silence that followed, but couldn't stop himself from choking out a few sobs. In between one breath and the next, Sam's crying grew loud and messy. Why wouldn't his mind stop _thinking_?

Dean's hand rubbed a little harder. "Hey, hey," he said over the sound of Sam's whimpers and shuddering. "Tell your big brother what's wrong. Let him help."

Objectively, Sam knew he was gross-looking. He could feel his own spit on his chin, snot running from his nose in a most liquid-like manner. His words came out wet and thick, but he started to talk, anyway. "How the hell am I going to live, Dean?" He tried to snort, but only ended up making his face messier. "I c-can't even go outside."

"Of course you can go outside, dude. You were outside just now," Dean reasoned.

Sam shook his head. "I had to. But now I'm here and I'm…I'm never coming out." He cried harder at the thought. He meant it: Sam never wanted to step outside again. The world was a scary place full of wrinkles and if the morning's events proved anything at all, it was that Sam was never safe. It didn't matter how banal of a task he attempted to follow through; he'd inevitably suffer at the hands of the elderly. He'd be stuck here in this hotel room until his dying days, mirrors broken to prevent him from seeing his _own_ wrinkles. Dean would…Dean would have to wear a mask when he visited.

"Sam?" Dean prompted, shaking him a little.

"A hermit!" Sam cried. "I'm going to be a hermit!"

Dean snorted, much better than Sam had been attempting before. "Dude. You're not going to be a hermit."

"Am, too!" Sam insisted. He turned over on his back, pushing Dean aside a little so he could glare. "How can I go outside, Dean? How can I leave? Wrinkles are everywhere."

"Today was a bad day," Dean tried to reason.

Sam's voice grew shrill. "Today was a bad day that could happen again!" His heart beat harder at the thought. "Today could happen tomorrow, or the day after that. It could happen when I'm grocery shopping, or loading a gun. Today could happen _anytime, _which means I can't leave."

"Nonsense," Dean said. "None of that shit is going to happen to you."

Sam sniffed. "Why not?"

"Because I'll be there."

Sam was not better the next day or the day after that. As childish as it was, he did a fair bit of crying to Dean, wailing about his worries. But Dean stuck through it all.

Sam didn't know why it worked, but Dean coaxed him outside with the promise of the best pear he'd even bit into waiting in the Impala. They progressed from short drives to long drives to sitting in the park. Sam clutched at Dean's sleeve more often than not, but he didn't flee.

He grew stronger.

Two months after Marcia, Sam shot a ghost with a great deal of wrinkles. All was well.

**THE END**

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I hope you enjoyed. And because I felt like it would ruin the flow of the chapter, I didn't mention that Marcia wasn't a witch. She was merely a hack and an old woman who enjoyed scaring anyone she could. Poor Sammy.


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